


Hesitation

by SabbyWrites



Series: S-Supports [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Burns, DFAB reader, F/M, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Insecurity, Lon'qu is STUPID (not really but kind of), Mild Spoilers, Missionary Position, Pining, Reader is Not Robin, Scarring, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, use of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 04:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13873263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyWrites/pseuds/SabbyWrites
Summary: Chrom had been hesitant to ask for your help, at first.(In which you try to be a good comrade, but it's hard to ignore Lon'qu's body when he's shirtless.)





	Hesitation

**Author's Note:**

> hi what's up im back again *airhorn noises*
> 
> this is first and foremost dedicated to Luna, who has been unbelievably patient with me. I promised her something nearly two years ago and I've failed to deliver. This girl still be puttin up with my ass though bc she's a real one. 
> 
> shoutout to Zen for beta reading this and making it legible because I swear i wrote half of this when i was high as hell. don't do drugs kids 
> 
> xx sabby 
> 
> ps i know this plot is bad but fuck it man Lon'qu needs to get laid

Chrom had been hesitant to ask for your help, at first. 

Looking back, you don’t blame him. He was already reluctant enough to rob his Shepherds of their well-deserved rest; your reaction to the day’s events must have made him second-guess every step he took towards your tent in the late hours of the night. You could sense his trepidation even as he gently shook you awake, and the uneasy feeling immediately causes you to bolt up once you realize exactly who needs your presence at such an hour. 

“He’s gotten worse, hasn’t he?” Your voice is thick with sleep but no less anxious-sounding. Faintly, you see Chrom’s mouth settle into a worried frown. 

“I’m not quite sure,” he admits as you yank on some canvas pants to go with the tunic you’d decided to sleep in. Chrom doesn’t turn his head in order to give you privacy, but you can tell his focus isn’t on your bare thighs or tousled hair. Besides, you’ve found that modesty is often a casualty of war when you spend most of your time in close quarters with upwards of twenty people. “I just wanted someone to check up on him and you… well, you—”

You give your leader the most serene look that you can. You don’t entirely fault him for worrying over his soldiers, especially since the events in Plegia. Emmeryn’s death has made everyone a little more conscious of their friend’s mortality. His hesitance makes sense, given everything that happened during today’s battle, but you’re willing to put aside your own guilt to make sure Chrom is assured of his soldier’s safety. 

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to upset you.”

“It’s fine, I promise.” You reassure the Exalt, reaching around blindly for your cloak. You slide it on over your arms as you exit your tent, the black and indigo fabrics making your body nearly invisible in the darkness of the night. In what little light the dying fire affords you, you see Chrom shoot you a thankful look. 

“Thank you. I knew he wouldn’t say anything to us about it, but it’s obvious he’s in pain.” 

“He’s awake, I’m assuming?” Chrom nods at your whispered question as the two of you weave through the assembled tents. Normally, the sounds of assorted snores and the wind among the leaves would placate you, but you’ve been on edge ever since the conclusion of this day’s battle. The Risen had been the least of your worries, unfortunately; a few dark mages had joined the fray and taken it upon themselves to try and eliminate anyone in their immediate vicinity. 

Lon’qu hadn’t been one of those people. Not at first. But then he’d gone and—

“I heard him moving around in his tent a few minutes ago. I can tell he’s restless.” 

The serene expression leaves your face at Chrom’s words, but you expected as much. The wound Lon’qu had sustained today caused him to need to retreat; even with your level of magic, it hadn’t completely closed. You speculated that the blade used to pierce his skin had been cursed with dark magic beyond your realm of knowledge, but you hadn’t been given time to assess it properly. Lon’qu had, in his typical fashion, refused help once the entire group had returned to the camp. Chrom had entertained the myrmidon’s penchant for keeping things to himself for most of the evening, but it appears now that his worry has reached a breaking point. 

“Here.” The Exalt whispers once the two of you reach Lon’qu’s tent, as if you aren’t already well aware of what it looks like, “if he gets irritated with you, tell him you’re there on my orders.” 

“Will do,” you promise, though you reflect on the fact that you would have ended up fretting over Lon’qu regardless of whether or not Chrom asked you to. You’d already spent most of dinner weeping in your tent alone. 

Your leader gives you another thankful smile. “Great. I’ll be out by the campfire if you need anything.” 

You simply nod in response, already parting the flaps to Lon’qu’s tent and ducking inside. 

His back is to you when you enter, but you can see his shoulders tense when the fabric of the tent rustles closed behind you. You’d be surprised, honestly, if his well-honed instincts hadn’t alerted him to your appearance. Nonetheless, he doesn’t turn around to acknowledge your arrival at first.

“Leave.” He says softly. You know he intends to be firm with you like he had been when you first tried to inspect the wound, but you feel no sting from his command. You wonder if it’s because you’ve become desensitized to his gruff manner of speaking over the years or if he truly has taken up a softer approach with you. Maybe it’s too far-fetched of you to hope it’s the latter.

Your eyes drop to his left side. He’s wearing a tunic, much like your own, and the dim light from his lantern causes the fabric to become less opaque. You can practically see the haphazard way in which he dressed the wound. 

“You know I’m not going to do that, Lon’qu.” You sigh, stepping closer to him. Instinctively, he flinches. 

“I’m—”

“Please don’t try to tell me that you’re fine. Assuming that I’m stupid enough to believe that is an insult.” You quip, though your tone is light and patient. You’ve learned that many people across the various lands you’ve traveled to regard Sages as docile; while you yourself are no fan of excessive bloodshed, the stereotype tends to hinder how seriously people take your firmness. Thankfully, Lon’qu is one of the few that rarely questions your authority. Especially not in this moment.

“I’m sorry.” He says simply, but the apology makes the edges of your mouth quirk upwards nonetheless. 

“It’s alright. I’m here on Chrom’s orders. We’re all concerned about you.” You clarify, tactfully leaving out the part about you crying to yourself earlier. 

Lon’qu doesn’t reply verbally, but he does send you a quick glance over his shoulder as you step closer. In a way, he reminds you of when you had healed a small wound on Frederick’s horse nearly three years ago. They have the same expression in their eyes, an odd juxtaposition of trust and caution; you approach them both the same way, with a light step and gently outstretched hand. 

Lon’qu allows you to rest a palm on his shoulder, though the tenseness in his muscles doesn’t soften at the contact. You used to take it personally when you’d first met him (when you’d first _fallen in love with_ him), but you’ve learned over time spent on the battlefield and in camps with him that that’s just the way that he is. It now saddens you in a more objective way. Instead of feeling like you’ve done something wrong, you just feel sorrow over the conditions that have led him to these sorts of reactions. 

“Can I see it?” You ask gently. He averts his gaze instead of answering you right away, his pensive expression hardened by the way the lantern darkens the shadows on his face. He’s handsome, very much so, and even though you like to think that you’re good at keeping your composure, being close to him always flusters you slightly. 

After a few moments of silence, he gently pulls his tunic up and over his head, revealing exactly what you’d expected: a would dressed in a manner that’d make you snort were it not for the fact that the situation is completely serious. The wound itself doesn’t bother you, you think as you crouch and begin to peel back the wrappings; it’s the fact that your magic hasn’t even come close to fixing it that makes you feel uneasy. It’s the fact that you know his suffering is your fault, the fact that there’s so many things unsaid between the two of you. 

The exposed, raw skin sticks to the bandages and so you struggle to take them off efficiently without causing him any pain. Lon’qu notices your pace slow, and he rips the gauze off himself in one fluid motion. You wince but don’t reprimand him, your immediate guilt at seeing his body with such an injury making you silent. 

The skin around the wound is red and irritated, though that color fades into an alarming purple that you’ve never seen before on an injury like this one. His flesh is dappled and sticky with blood, lymph fluid, and pus; as a sage, you’ve grown used to the odor of war. Some of the skin around the stab wound is healed, thanks mostly to your magic, but the majority of it is still open and jagged and it stretches further upwards than you remember. Peering closer, you notice a webbing of something that reminds you of infected epidermal cells. 

Lon’qu must notice the way your breath hitches whenever you shift closer to his side. 

“This looks bad.” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t this bad earlier.” 

“It’s fine.” He moves to re-wrap his lower torso but your hand instinctively circles around his wrist. Your strength is no match for his and yet he immediately stills regardless, as if you’ve completely immobilized him. 

“No, it’s not. The blade was definitely cursed— I remember Henry telling me and Ricken about seeing something like this when he was in school.” You prattle on slightly more out of your own nerves than Lon’qu’s own desire for context; once you step back from a medical perspective, it’s hard to ignore the fact that Lon’qu is half naked in front of you. 

“Would he know how to heal it?” Lon’qu doesn’t seem as anxious as he does generally curious. From his tone, it’s almost impossible to tell if he really cares about Henry’s abilities or not. 

Nonetheless, the words inadvertently make you flinch. There’s a little nagging feeling in the back of your mind that you thought had been pushed away after your small breakdown in your tent earlier— the feeling of inadequacy. No matter how many lives you saved, no matter how many times you were thanked by Chrom and the others for fixing their wounds and ailments, no matter how many other magic users looked up to you for your skills— moments like these never failed to make you feel like the girl you were back in Ylisse, back when everyone around you was sword fighting and learning to ride horses and you were stuck in your home reading because you could do little else. Since joining the cause you’ve had little time to round out your combat skills, focusing most of your effort on magic and healing. 

And now, you’re unable to even do that. 

You’re sure the embarrassment must be clear on your face, but again Lon’qu says nothing. You hardly blame him; what is he supposed to do? _Thank_ you for not being able to do your job?

“I’m not sure if he does,” you admit. “Healing isn’t really one of his focuses. I might be able to think of something, now that I know what I’m dealing with a little better, but I can’t promise anything.”

It hurts admitting it out loud. 

“I’ll be right back, alright? I have to grab a few tomes.”

Lon’qu nods, settling himself into a sitting position on his bedroll. The small flinch that crosses over his face doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and it makes you feel even worse as you duck outside into the air of what is now becoming the early morning. 

You walk back to your tent as silently as you can so as not to wake your fellow Shepherds. Chrom is still tending the fire in the center of the camp, his navy eyes half-lidded. You’re almost tempted to take over watch for him, but Lon’qu’s situation is of more importance to you at the moment. Chrom gives you a small smile as you pass, one you return quite readily along with a reassuring nod. A little bit of the tension in his shoulders eases. 

It takes you only a few minutes to gather the tomes you believe to be most useful, and before you know it you’re back inside of Lon’qu’s tent. His position on the floor makes you feel quite tall— unusual, for you— and so you set your assorted reading materials onto the ground and sit in front of him. 

He hasn’t bothered to pull his tunic back on to cover his wound again. You pick up the first book in your pile, one lent to you by Miriel, and flip through it quickly.

Nothing. You pick up one of your old favorites, but know almost immediately that it will be useless as well. Lon’qu watches you as you focus, his eyes lingering on the way your brows furrow together and your mouth tilts downward in concentration. Perhaps if you had been looking up, you would have seen the often-suppressed glimmer of affection in his gaze finally peek out. He blinks, and then it’s gone again. 

“I think Henry gave me this one…” You murmur as you hoist up the third book in the pile. It’s a dark maroon embossed with various glyphs in gold; a beautiful book, but one you know to be capable of destruction. Normally, you didn’t gravitate towards such content, though more out of needing to work on magic that you can _actually_ use versus any sort of disdain for other types of magic. The binding creaks pleasantly as you open the tome, the gilded sides of the pages flashing as you turn them. 

“How would you describe the sensation?” You gesture with your head to Lon’qu’s wound, which seems significantly less irritated without cloth touching it. 

“It hurts.” 

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. “I know _that_. I mean, is there anything about it that makes it feel strange to you?” 

“It’s very cold.” 

Your eyes widen a tad, but you’re able to pass off the look as interested rather than panicked. You’re well aware of the fact that every minute you spend talking to Lon’qu could be bringing him closer and closer to death, but fighting in wartime has forced you to remain calm in most situations due to pure necessity. 

“Cold, huh? Okay, that helps.” You nod earnestly, as if optimism itself will cure a cursed stab wound. Lon’qu stares at you so intently that a small lump forms in your throat and you immediately look down, slightly scared of the possibility that you might blurt out you’re in love with him right there and then. 

Thankfully, you don’t. But you take a second to congratulate yourself, as you scan the tome, for the fact that you’ve gone so long without confessing to Lon’qu. It took you long enough to keep him from avoiding you due to his phobia; you can’t imagine how hard it would be to remain a close comrade of his if your feelings are unreciprocated. 

To be fair, Ricken always reminds you, you can’t be _certain_ that the feelings are unrequited. You always maintain that they are, though, but in times like this you almost feel like you’re deluding yourself into thinking otherwise; the space between you two is minimal and he seems at a sort of relative ease in the moment. Perhaps not as laid back as he could be, but it’s a far cry from the more abrasive way he used to treat you when he first joined the army. 

“This could be it.” You muse as you flick a few more pages to land on an ice curse. “But your wound isn’t crystalizing, is it?” 

You lean forward, nearly bent in half as you peer again at the wound. Lon’qu’s breathing hitches but you pay if little mind. Up this close, you can see a few threads of fabric stuck into the skin where some of the blood and fluid has dried. 

“I don’t believe so.” You notice the slight strain in his voice, but misread it as pain. You immediately sit back, turning more pages. 

“Okay. Well, then we know it’s not ice-related magic. It doesn’t look like the sort of things Henry uses, either, so I can cross those off the list. I wish we could have his insight, though; I’d feel better having a second set of eyes.”

“Why?” You blink in surprise at the genuine question. 

“Do you want the honest answer or a more generic one?” You ask, tilting your head a little. With you not as close, Lon’qu seems a little more at ease. 

“Honest.” 

“Well. If I’m being truthful, I’m a little scared of messing up. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Lon’qu.” 

“You rarely mess up.” 

“So you think.” Your tone comes out a little more bitter than you intended. You mentally try to shove the insecure part of you back into its dark corner, but Lon’qu takes notice this time. 

“Why do you say it like that?” 

“Because I’ve messed up plenty.” You drop your attention back to the borrowed tome, your foot jittering slightly. 

“I think—”

“Can we please focus on this first?” You’re proud of the fact that you’re able to keep your voice level this time. He nods once, allowing you to continue with your search through the tome, but there’s a heat in your cheeks that you detest. 

You flick past recipes for tonics and hexes that promise to speed up flower growth (something you mentally bookmark to tell Sumia about later), finding only a handful of curses that can be applied to weapons. 

“Ferrum igne… no, that can’t be it.” You murmur, brow creasing once again as you skim the diagrams provided by the scribe who penned the book. The spell next to it, something about making toads sing, seems to be well-loved by Henry; the page is dog-eared to the point of almost ripping. 

Despite your anxiety and insecurity and guilt, you find yourself chuckling. Lon’qu’s stare bores into you, but you force yourself not to look up. 

“Venenum conscidisti? This could be it.” You point to a curse a few pages down, “allows a curse to be placed on the iron weapon of choice. The iron acts as a pathway for the venom of the curse to imbed in skin… _causing a milky film to form inside the wound_! Okay, I found it!”

Lon’qu watches your mood shift, though he speculates that the change is only temporary. He’s proven correct when your face suddenly falls. 

“But there’s no… cure, I don’t understand…” You skim the book more intently than before, but the words reveal no new information. 

“Does it say how long it takes for the poison to start taking effect?”

“Anywhere from an hour to a full day, depending on the strength of the mage who cursed the weapon. It doesn’t enter the blood like a traditional poison, but instead festers in the wound until the agony kills you. God, Lon’qu, I… this is…” 

You’re in near-hysterics now; it’d been easier to ignore the fact that Lon’qu could succumb to his wound when you weren’t quite sure what prevented it from being healed, but now your anxiety has solid ground to latch onto every corner of your mind and make your feel dizzy. This shouldn’t be happening, not to Lon’qu, you should have insisted he let you inspect the wound sooner—

You shouldn’t have been standing where you were during battle. 

“It’s okay.” His voice is gruff but you’re a little shocked to find that it sounds like he’s trying to calm you. It works, marginally.

Your mouth presses into a grim line but you nod once, figuring that now is the worst time for anxiety. You close the book with a firm snap, setting it on top of the other two and looking at the wound. 

“Okay,” you start, “I have a few courses of action I could take here. I could try and freeze the skin until the entire area is frostbitten, then cure the frostbite, or I could cauterize the wound with fire and heal the burns.”

Lon’qu nods, eyes trained intently on yours. “Whatever you think would be best. I trust your judgement.”

His lack of trepidation towards possibly feeling more pain doesn’t surprise you. You admire his tenacity, but you shoot the wound another glance and you’re certain that he can see the fleeting spark of guilt in your eyes that you’ve been trying to suppress all night. 

The first real, true silence settles over the tent as you two lock eyes again. Even the crackle of the fire outside and the chirping of crickets seems not to reach the two of you anymore. 

“I think I’m going to use fire. It’s more sanitary that way.” You say in an attempt to break the quiet. He looks as if he wants to press you— ironic, given his own distaste for discussing his feelings— but he drops it when you start to roll the sleeves of your robe up. 

“Okay. Would you like me to lay down?” He says. 

“If you’d be more comfortable.” It seems that he would, because he moves to position himself on the bedroll without much preamble. You know that this is far from the best time for you to admire all of the contours of his body, but you’re still anxious. 

Looking at him has always done wonders for easing that. 

Once you surmise that he’s as comfortable as he can be when one is expecting even more excruciating pain, you shuffle closer on your knees so that you can place your hands above his side. The wound is, as the book says, growing larger; you swallow the hard lump in your throat and murmur the incantation that you know will do the trick. 

It’s difficult seeing him grimace in pain, even more so when you’re keenly aware that you’re the one causing it. But Lon’qu, a man of consistency, doesn’t allow it to get to him. His teeth grit and his eyes squint as you work, burning only what you deem absolutely necessary. The bodily fluids in his wound hiss as the heat hits them and his skin waves as it burns, but you do not stop. Not when a single tear rolls out of his left eye or when beads of sweat swell on his skin; you have to force yourself to be strong like he is, to continue until you’re certain that the poison has been burned away. 

It feels like hours, but in reality it only takes a few minutes for the white webbing to burn and give way to newer flesh. You keep your eyes trained on it as you lower your hands, allowing the short flames to extinguish themselves. After a pause, you realize that you yourself are also sweating. 

A short noise from Lon’qu immediately snaps you back into action and you begin to heal the burns, watching with no small amount of relief as the skin instantly begins to heal, even that which had been resistant to your initial attempts. You feel like crying, feel like shouting for joy, feel like doing a jig around the campfire with Chrom until the sun breaks over the horizon. The breath that you didn’t realize you’d been holding in comes stuttering out of your lungs in a soft, dry sob as Lon’qu’s skin goes back to its original state. 

You nearly collapse when you’re done. From exhaustion or elation you’re not quite sure, but regardless you give Lon’qu a stern look that’s marred by your own giddy grin. The swordsman raises a brow at you as he tentatively sits back up. He runs a hand over his healed side, seemingly impressed with your work as he usually is.

“Thank you.” He says. His expression is heavy in a neutral way that immediately puts a small damper on your mental self-congratulations. 

“Any time. Especially after… y’know. What happened today.” 

This seems to be something that Lon’qu _wants_ to talk about, surprisingly. 

“Don’t blame yourself for it.” 

Without the nagging thought that Lon’qu might perish, you’re a little more receptive to finally steering the conversation in this direction. 

“Hard not to. You jumped in front of a blade that had been thrown at me. That tends to make someone feel a little guilty.” 

Lon’qu’s almost-smile makes another reappearance. This time, it lingers for a little longer before receding back into his typical more serious expression. 

“It is something that I would gladly do again.” He replies. Despite yourself, you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words. You try to beat them down with more rational thought. 

_He’s being a good comrade. He’s being a good comrade. He’s being a good comrade. He’s—_

“You know,” you start after clearing your throat, “it isn’t your duty to protect me. I appreciate your actions, very much so, but I don’t know what I would have done with myself had you died because of me.” 

“Not because of you. It was my decision to make, and I made it. That does not fall on your shoulders.”

There’s something brewing in those eyes that you’ve come to love so dearly. Something raw and real and almost shocking in its intensity. You’re not certain what to make of it, but it doesn’t repel you. 

“Lon’qu, you’re a fantastic soldier. One of Chrom’s best. I don’t think it would be good for the Shepherds to lose you. Sometimes, the best way to protect others is to keep yourself safe. You’re so preoccupied with making sure that we’re all protected that sometimes I fear you fail to give yourself the same consideration.”

You regret the words almost immediately after you say them, thinking of what he’d told you months ago about his past in Chon’sin— but, to your surprise, he doesn’t seem offended in the slightest. 

“I knew what could happen to me by joining Chrom. I’m aware I can’t always protect everyone who fights alongside me, but…”

He shifts slightly, coming closer by only millimeters. And yet, it feels as though he’s embraced you. You swallow again, not quite sure as to what’s happening. Your heart rams against your ribcage pitifully, as if it’s trying to fly towards his own. 

“… I knew since the day I fell in love with you that there was nothing more important to me than protecting you. Nothing. If keeping you safe means that the cause goes on without me, then so be it— but you are the thing that I’m fighting for out there. The possibility of being near you, of hearing you speak to the horses in the morning and laughing with others at dinner, I… I’ve always wanted to be part of that, but I’ve never known how. If all I can ever do is protect you, then I will do so until my dying breath.” 

You’ve thought about this moment many, many times, but now that it’s actually happening, it’s completely different than what you expected. You thought he’d be gruff or distant with a confession— if he’d even felt the same about you in the first place— but his steady, straightforward words are perhaps even sweeter. It’s a testament to his comfort around you, to his willingness to open himself and share an intimate part of his mind with you. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until a tear drops from your chin onto the ground below. 

“Do you… do you mean that?” 

“With every part of me.” He says. “It took me a long time to reconcile the part of me that wanted to run from my feelings with the part of me that knew I had to fight tooth and nail for you. You could have been angry with me for what happened today. You could have left me to suffer after I turned you away. But you’ve shown me kindness and I— Gods, I’m only a man. I can’t ignore it any longer.” 

You wipe your cheek with the sleeve of your robe and he watches you do so with an oddly strained patience. 

It takes a moment for your thoughts to process. The whole ordeal of worrying over him, of the overwhelming anxiety of having him injured trying to protect you, and now this; it’s hard for you to be objective any longer around him. You want to cry more, you want to laugh, you want to smile—

You do none of those. Instead, you all but lunge forward and kiss him. 

It’s clumsy, at first. You hardly know what you’re doing and you’re well aware that he doesn’t have a clue either, but somehow that makes it all the sweeter. 

He pulls you into his lap before you can really position yourself, one arm wrapping around your waist and the other tangling into the hair at the back of your head. You put one of your own hands on his shoulder and another on his cheek, though this is equally out of a need for balance along with passion. Because the tent lacks solid walls, you rely on Lon’qu’s strength to keep you upright. Perhaps you’d feel anxious being at the mercy of someone else, but you know he won’t let you fall. 

And he doesn’t. The way he continues to kiss you is slow and languid but harsh all the same. He kisses just like you thought he would, his grip tight and his presence overwhelming, but you find yourself falling even more in love with him through it. It’s the first time he’s let all of his guard down around you, and you hope to the gods above that it won’t be the last. 

You make a small noise in the back of your throat, a cross between a moan and a hum, as you curiously touch his lips with your tongue. You’ve never kissed before, but the trepidation in your movements is minimal. It feels natural with Lon’qu, like there’s nothing you can do wrong. 

He opens his mouth almost immediately, his tongue tentatively meeting yours. They glide against each other only for a moment before you’re pulling back, chest heaving as you gulp in air. 

The need for oxygen seemingly doesn’t apply to Lon’qu as he instead turns to focus his efforts on kissing the soft skin on the column of your throat. Your hand on his face migrates down to his other shoulder as your nails, although not very long, bite into his skin. He seems to pay the sensation very little mind. 

It’s strange, to say the least, having him with you like this. In your head, you’d always seen him as a more cautious, if not anxious, lover, but this frantic heat and uncalculated movement suits him just the same. It’s rough and speaks louder than any words ever could.

“Lon’qu…” You murmur when you feel his teeth graze over the spot above your collarbone. Accidental or not, it sends a firm shiver down your spine. 

A throaty groan rumbles from his chest in response but never falters in his movements. Once he reaches the collar of your cloak he lays his cheek onto your shoulder, staring up at you with one of those beautiful dark eyes. 

“Yes?” He finally replies. 

“I… I want …” You stammer because, in all honesty, you’re not quite sure _what_ you want to say or do. Do you press him down into the bedroll and have your way with him? Do you recite all of the mushy poetry you’ve ever read in order to prove your love to him? The sentence trails off aimlessly as your breathing steadily begins to level out. Perhaps he sees your true answer in your eyes because he immediately raises his head again so that he can return his lips to yours once more. 

He’s a little slower this time, but only marginally. You assume that it’s because the initial fervor of confessing your feelings has passed, but then you remember that, in battle, Lon’qu always tends to pull back before he makes a sudden move. 

It’s much the same here. 

So as not to startle you too much, he moves his hand from you hair and presses it into your upper back. By the time you realize what he’s about to do he’s already doing it, gently laying you onto the bedroll so that he can suspend himself over you. You have few objections to the new position, for it allows you to have an unobstructed view of his face. The love in his eyes is raw and jagged just like his personality, just like _everything_ about him, and it strikes you for the first time that how deeply he cares about you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back slightly when he misreads your pause as hesitance, “if that was too bold—”

“No!” You reply quickly, grabbing at his arms as if he might try to run from you. “No, I’m… I like this. With you.” 

He smiles. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him smile but it feels like the most profound one you’ve seen because it’s one meant just for you. The corners of his lips curl up softly, a perfect accent to the fiery flush in his cheeks, and you can’t help but press a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth. He hums with content when you do so, lashes fluttering lightly. They’re long and beautiful, dainty on a rugged man like himself. You love this about Lon’qu, the rare instances of softness that peek through as you draw closer to him. Somehow, they feel like tiny gifts, a privilege that solely belongs to you. 

He hesitates as you shift slightly under him. It’s more apparent now that Lon’qu’s unsure of what he’s doing, giving no inclination of where he wants to begin now that he’s on top of you; you wrap your arms around his neck and gently pull his head down to connect his lips with your again. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of kissing him. 

By the way he reacts, you assume he won’t either. With a renewed surge of determination, Lon’qu attempts to retake the lead and intertwines your tongue with his. He slides a hand underneath your robe to rest on top of your hip. Despite the heavy tunic covering your torso, the heat from his palm cause goosebumps to erupt across your skin. The warmth vastly contrasts with the fire you had conjured up minutes ago, yet the looming threat of sweat on your forehead remains. His grip is a bit tight but you’re certain this blossoms from nerves rather than roughness— the way he’s gazing at your body beneath his is by far the most gentle expression you’ve ever seen on him. 

You know immediately what you want. 

Slowly— so _slowly_ — you remove your arms from around his neck and begin to peel the robe off your body. The sight is far from traditionally sensual, given your lying position. Regardless, his eyes follow your movements, absolutely transfixed. You arch your back in order to fully remove the garment and toss it off the bedroll. His breathing audibly hitches.  
Silence stretches between the two of you like an elastic band ready to snap at any given moment. Lon’qu swallows hard, focusing his gaze back onto yours with a minute amount of strain. 

Finally, the hand from your hip glides downwards until his fingers reach the hem of your tunic. Cautiously, he dips his fingers underneath the fabric and pulls them upwards, skimming them along your side. The touch itself is gentle, yet so unlike all of the previous ones; the quick pats on the shoulder and injury inspections had all been in a platonic manor. Hurried. Merely a tool to rid him of his gynophobia from the start. No touch compares to this as of right now. It’s languid and it’s completely elective. He wants to touch you, wants to be close to you. The thought makes your eyes sting a little in the most pleasant way, and you have to blink hard to make sure you don’t cry again. 

Once you steady your emotions, you nod up at him. He’s always been good at reading battle cues, and that seems to apply here as well; he slides his hand further, taking more fabric with it. You shiver as your skin is exposed to the cool night air. Whether it’s from the actual chill or just anticipation, you cannot tell. Perhaps both. 

You help him once your tunic bunches up beneath your breasts, taking the hem into your own hands and pulling it over your head to join your robe on the ground. Not that the swordsman notices— your breasts are suddenly in his view, free from their cloth barriers. You hadn’t bothered wearing a bra nor a chest wrapping to bed, and you’re all the more glad for it. 

His free hand gently closes over one of them, that lovely warmth making the rest of you feel cold by comparison. One of his long, beautiful fingers skims over your nipple after a moment of hesitation, and he seems to find delight in your positive reaction to it. His thumb joins soon and then he’s lightly pinching it in order to draw more breathy sounds from you. Your back arches into his touch and Lon’qu hums, pleased with how receptive you seem to be to having him see you half naked. 

The sensations are pleasant, but nothing like what you know they can be. Your constant reading has prepared you for this in a way that you hope makes up for your lack of actual experience; slowly, as he had done for you, you let one of your hands fall to the waistline of his pants and you tug at them. 

Lon’qu takes the hint and sits up, although he seems reluctant to stop touching you for even a second. He pulls down his pants with a little more aggression than he had given to your tunic, surprising you with his bravery. He stares at you afterwards, a little awkward and completely nude, and you can’t help but grin at him. 

“Mine too, if you want.” You say, and he doesn’t bother affirming it because he’s already pulling at them, eyes completely trained on the apex of your thighs. You’re not surprised, really— after all, he is a man— and the eagerness quite suits him in an unexpected way. You take his momentary distraction as an opportunity to appraise the rest of his body—

And then you immediately balk. 

His muscle definition is expected, yet the sight of them is more than enough to make your brain feel fuzzy. His shoulders are broad, torso tapering slightly into what you assume to be powerful hips and toned legs. Scars mark his body along the way like little detours on a roadmap, yet you find yourself entranced by them rather than repulsed. He must have sustained the injuries when he was younger, before he was able to access proper healing magic. The thought of him all alone in some dirty Feroxi alleyway, nursing a gash, saddens you. You reach out and tentatively touch one near his belly button. He shudders. 

Lon’qu entertains your sorrowful wonder only briefly before pulling your trousers off the rest of the way, then sliding his hands back up the expanse of your legs so they can come to rest at your hips. You feel only slightly insecure, surprisingly; you’d always assumed being nude in front of someone else for the first time would be nerve-wracking. It kind of is, in the best way possible— instead of fretting about stretch marks or body hair you find yourself tingling with anticipation. The feeling is only amplified by the way he looks at you, as if he’s come across a priceless treasure and isn’t yet sure what he intends to do with it. 

You don’t want to rush him, but you’re starting to feel a little brave yourself. You take one of his hands in your own and slowly slide it to the apex of your thighs. 

He freezes. You immediately release his hand, worried that somehow you’ve gone too far, but he doesn’t look upset. He looks—

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

— nervous. 

“That’s okay,” you reassure, “neither do I. We’ll figure it out, alright?” 

He seems mollified by your ability to give him instruction, nodding once and pressing a slow kiss to your lips. You return it, but don’t have much time to deepen it; he pulls back and looks at you patiently, awaiting your next words. It’s almost enough to make you giggle. 

“Okay, ah,” you start, once more putting his hand in yours, “start here.” 

You press his fingers down onto your clit, moving them in slow but firm circles. He continues the moment on his own when you release his hand, his gaze taking in the way your expression goes a little lax and how your back arches a little automatically.

THe stimulation feels different when you’re not the one applying it. Your eyes flutter closed after a few seconds of him playing with your clit, breath leaving your lungs in a few stuttered puffs. He smells good, you think, like pine and soap. Gone is the smell of that putrid wound, gone is the smell of the campfire; you feel completely surrounded in that moment, safe and at ease with the person that you love most. 

Then his fingers migrate downward and your eyes snap open. 

He’s looking at you intently, gauging your reaction to his deviation. When you don’t protest, he runs his middle finger over your slit and seems a little stunned at the lubrication he finds there. He repeats the motion, a little slower, and then he takes care to pass over the source of it. 

You don’t feel pain when he inserts a finger into you, although the sensation is strange. His fingers are much bigger than your own, not to mention longer, and the one inside of you drags against your inner walls in a way completely unfamiliar to you. Something between a sigh and a groan leaves your lips and you hear his breath hitch, see his pupils dilate, and then he’s sliding another finger in next to the first. 

The stretch is more noticeable this time. He pumps them in and out slowly like he had with the first, scissoring them experimentally and doing it again when you instinctively moan out your approval. The pads of his fingers curl against you in the best way, the feeling further punctuated by the wet sound his fingers make every time they move in and out of you. Your hands find a home in his hair, pulling him close with an iron grip so that you can kiss him as he fingers you. He doesn’t protest, though he does lose a little bit of his focused composure in favor of groaning into your mouth. 

“Lon’qu,” you breathe, lips dragging against his when you pull back for air, “please fuck me.” 

He’s heard you use crude language a fair amount of times, no doubt, but this does something different to him. Maybe it’s the desperation that laces your voice or the way you tighten around his fingers that does him in; regardless, he doesn’t hesitate for even a moment. He’s certain of what he wants, and his trepidation lies discarded like another article of clothing on the ground. 

He pulls away from your embrace and you whine at the loss of heat. Another smile dances across his face before his brows furrow and a look of concentration takes its place. He grabs his cock in one hand— substantially sized to the point where you wonder if it’ll be able to fit inside of you— and then he drags the head through your slit like he had with his fingers, lubricating himself in the process. He only has one brief pause of uncertainty, one that you remedy by helping guide him to slide inside of you. 

You weren’t wrong in wondering about the fit. It’s snug, but doable as he slowly pushes himself into you. Only when he finally stops to take in a ragged breath do you realize that you’ve been holding in one of your own, and that he’s completely inside of you. 

His face looks a little pained. You’re almost proud of that. 

“Keep going.” You encourage, bringing one of your legs up and wrapping it around his waist. He makes a strangled noise, lurching forward slightly to bury his face into your neck. The movement does, of course, give you the result that you’d wanted; your back arches again, your body pressing firmly into his as he starts to fuck you. It feels good, feels _right_ , being joined with him like this. It’s a satisfying sense of fullness, of completion, and it makes you realize just how much you love this man. It’s almost astounding, the amount of emotions you’re feeling in this moment, and it would rob you of your breath if Lon’qu wasn’t already busy doing so himself. 

One of his hands latches onto your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin in what must be his last effort at self-control. The struggle is apparent on his facial features, with his eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed sharply. His mouth hangs open slightly, slack in a numb sort of way. He’s watching you intently, like he can’t bear to go a single second without watching your face contort in pleasure. His hand leaves your thigh almost as quickly as it had come to rest there, traveling south to your clit. He presses down again, though the circles he rubs are much sloppier than they had been before. You hardly mind, your head tilting back as you let out a small gasp of pleasure. 

In the back of your mind you have some regard for the other Shepherds, who would no doubt be woken by any suspiciously loud noises; however, you find it difficult to put much more thought into the fact with Lon’qu pounding into you like he is. You bite your lip in a half-decent attempt to muffle your sounds, as Lon’qu chooses to resume kissing your neck in order to mask his own. You feel his teeth scrape along the flesh there, not hard enough to mark, but hard enough to feel slightly possessive and mostly feral. 

He only pulls back to look at you sprawled beneath him again, your breasts bouncing and the thin sheen of sweat on your body glistening in the glow of the lantern’s light. His body has erupted in a patchy blush all over, the red splotches marring his neck and collarbones the result of equal parts lust and exertion. The look of adoration across his face is raw and unbridled, and it makes you tighten around him even more. 

“Don’t stop,” you rasp, suddenly aware of a bubbling underneath your skin, “please don’t stop!”

Lon’qu, always good at taking commands, bears down on you a little harder, thrusts a little faster, rubs your clit with more intensity, and then you’re gone. It’s like being hit with magic for the first time and having to reorient yourself; the heightened sense of pleasure is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Your spine tingles, your nerves feel like they’re live wires, and then, and _then_ —

You’re faintly aware of the fact that you’re near sobbing with pleasure as he fucks you through your orgasm, your nails nearly tearing at his skin while you come. 

“I love you,” you all but wail as your breath is stolen right from your lungs, “ _I love you!_ ”

Your words seems to carry him over with you. You can’t be certain, as you’re already preoccupied with your own release, but you certainly feel his reaction. The arm that he’d been using to support himself fists the sheets near your head impossibly tight as his thrusts loose speed and cadence. He spills into you and it feels right. You feel _whole_ , you think as he finally stills himself. Your pulse is racing and you’re both covered in sweat, gazing at each other like two teenagers in love. 

“I love you too,” he says breathlessly, and you know more than anything that he means it.

~*~

**Ten Years Later.**

Sunrises in Ferox are different than those in Ylisse.

Most people, when you tell them this, tend not to believe you. You don’t blame them, after all; they aren’t different in an aesthetic way. Visibly, the two are the same, but there’s something about watching the sun break over the jagged horizon here that fills you with a budding happiness that Ylisse never had. 

You hear a faint rustling from the bed behind you. You turn away from the massive arched windows of your bedroom towards the noise, a gentle smile on your lips as the room begins to glow with the honeyd light of the sun. 

“Rise and shine.” You say, voice only slightly above a whisper. Your husband groans, turning his back to the windows in order to chase a few more minutes of sleep. You laugh quietly to yourself; with age, Lon’qu has become less and less tolerant of rising in the early morning. 

“Ah, don’t be like that. You promised our daughter you’d take her out to spar first thing today.” You remind him, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She’ll be disappointed if you’re late.”

“She’s too young to be sparring.” He huffs, and you laugh again. There’s no doubt your eight-year-old is already outside of your bedroom door, wooden practice sword in hand so that she might ambush her father. 

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You were even younger when you started to train.” 

“My life was different than hers is.” 

“Hardly an excuse. Get up.” You retort playfully, gently shaking his shoulder. Lon’qu groans, tightening his grip on the silky covers. You’d had them delivered from Plegia not too long ago, at Henry’s recommendation. Lon’qu enjoyed them immensely. 

You roll your eyes at his stubbornness. “Lon’qu, is it not the duties of the Khan to make sure his entire army is trained to perfection?”

“Yes.” His words are muffled by his pillow.

“And we both know she will be one of them when she comes of age. You’d best work with her now before you get too old to spar with her properly.”

At this, Lon’qu cracks an eye open and glares at you. You giggle when he rolls back over, tutting incredulously. 

“The Khan is also entitled to a few more minutes of rest with his wife.”

“Is he, now?” 

“Yes. So come here, before you incur his wrath.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” your grin grows as you crawl closer to him and press a kiss to his temple, “I hear he’s quite scary.” 

Lon’qu lets out a huff and you laugh again, as content in his arms as you were the day he first held you. He pulls you close, his body heat warding off the chill of the Feroxi morning. You allow it, though the both of you know that you’ll have to rise again eventually. He has military training to oversee in the afternoon, and you have a library to organize that you know will take hours. 

But for now he holds you, simple and sweet, as the sun rises fully over the mountains and floods your home with a glow that matches your inner happiness. 

All is well.

**Author's Note:**

> please please someone tell me that this fic made sense... anyone... bueller... 
> 
> check out my [tumblr](http://sabbywrites.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/sabbywrites) if you wanna know what it looks like to disappoint both god and jesus
> 
> xx


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